Chapter Ten.
“You Cannot Have Read Many Fairy Stories.”
But no, she stood there, opening the window a little, though it was decidedly cold, in vain. There was no sign or sound of her friends, and Mary felt disappointed and rather cross when the bell rang, and she had to hasten downstairs without even the pretty greeting, she loved so well, reaching her from the neighbouring trees.
“They are really rather unkind,” she thought. “I do believe they know everything, or at least most things about me. I am sure they know I want to see them this morning. I daresay I shall hear nothing more of them – ever – or perhaps they’ll come, but after I am gone; very likely the white dove will come back to Crook Edge after Blanche and Milly are gone. I don’t believe birds have got any hearts, whether they’re half fairies or not.”
“Mary,” said Miss Verity, who noticed Mary’s moods more than the little girl knew, “will you gather some fir-cones for me this afternoon? I shall not be going a drive, as the ponies need shoeing, and besides that, I have some long letters to write. So you can amuse yourself in the forest if you like.” Somehow Mary’s spirits rose when she heard this; for though feeling, as she was, rather offended with the wood-pigeons, it made her, all the same, hopeful that she might come across them.
And as soon as possible after her early dinner she set off, carrying the basket that Pleasance had given her to fill with fir-cones.
“I think I must look like a rather big Red-Riding-Hood,” she thought, as she passed through the wicket between Dove’s Nest and the forest; “though my basket is empty and hers was full, and I am hoping to meet the Cooies and not fearing to meet a wolf! And though my coat is red like hers, it is a jacket and not a cloak.”
But she walked a good way without meeting anything, and again she began to feel rather cross with her little friends.
“I shall just not think any more about them,” she said to herself. “I need not go farther; there are lots of nice cones here. I will just fill the basket and go home, and I will tell godmother that I don’t care to come to the forest after all. It is too dull.”
It did seem very silent that afternoon; all the summer and even autumn sounds had gone, only the wintry ones of a branch snapping and falling, or leaves softly dropping, their little lives over. And now and then some faint strange bird’s note or cry, as the winged traveller passed rapidly overhead, which sounded to Mary’s fancy like a farewell.
“It’s going away,” she thought, “to some lovely warm place for the winter. Perhaps it has come from far north, where it is still colder than here, and is just only passing. I don’t think I like the winter after all, I wish you would take me with you, birdie,” and she gave a little shiver, for she had been standing about, as she picked up the cones. And the cold feeling reminded her of the soft, bright warmth of the secret part of the forest, and made her again reproach the Cooies in her heart, for she felt sure there would be no use in trying to find the white gate or to pass through it, if she did find it, without their help.
But patience is generally rewarded in the end, and Mary had shown patience in her actions if not in her thoughts, for she had by this time well filled her basket. And as she dropped into it the last cone or two it would hold, she heard the murmur that she had, though scarcely owning it to herself, been listening for all the afternoon.
“Coo-coo,” – very faint and distant at first, then clearer and nearer, till, on to each shoulder there came a rustle and a tiny weight, and – they were there! In rather a teasing mood, however!
“Mary, Mary, quite contrary,” they cooed. “How is your basket filled?”
Mary shrugged her shoulders, but she only heard a “cooey” laugh.
“No, no, you can’t shake us off,” they said.
“Quite contrary, indeed,” quoted Mary. “I should say it to you, not you to me. You know how I’ve been wanting you and watching for you at my window, and now you’ve let half the afternoon go without coming near me. It’s too late now for anything.”
“You are quite mistaken,” was the reply. “There is plenty of time. Business first and pleasure afterwards. You have got a nice basketful of cones, so now you can come with us with a clear conscience.”
“I wish you wouldn’t bother about my conscience; it’s all right,” said Mary, rather crossly still, though in her heart she quite trusted the Cooies, and was delighted to go with them. “What shall I do with the basket?” she went on.
“Leave it here – on the path. It will be quite safe. You are close to the white gate, though you did not know it,” said Mr Coo. “Turn round.”
So Mary did, putting down her basket, and feeling rather like a big ship steered by a very small person at the helm. And sure enough, the tiny path, or passage rather, scarcely to be called a path, was there at her side, though she had not seen it when busy gathering the cones.
It seemed less of a scramble this time, and only a very few paces to go, before they were at the gate. Mary had no grey feather in her cap this time as an “open sesame,” and no need for one apparently, for the white gate opened of itself as soon as they reached it, “without the least fuss. I suppose it is because the Cooies are on my shoulders,” thought she.
And just as they got to the other gate the wood-pigeons hopped down, and actually, with their beaks, or feet, or somehow, pushed it open, without any difficulty, holding it back till Mary had passed through, when it gently closed.
The little girl stood still, looking round her in expectation of seeing the crowds of birds as before. But not one was there! The place, though lovelier that ever, she thought, as she glanced at the beautiful light, flickering and filtering through the interlacing bushes, and rested her eyes on the fresh green, and felt the soft warmth creeping caressingly round her, was quite deserted. And as she turned to her little friends in surprise, they answered, as now often happened, her unspoken question.
“No,” they said, “you will not meet any of our relations to-day. They are very busy elsewhere, as you will hear. But that will make it all the easier to show you the arbours you so much want to see.”
“Thank you,” said Mary, not sorry to hear this, for the crowds of birds had just a little worried her, and she was feeling rather stiff and tired with the cold and with stooping so much to pick up the cones.
“But in the first place,” said one of the Cooies – I think it was Mr Coo – “you must rest a little and get warm.”
He looked at her as he spoke, with his head on one side. He and Mrs Coo were not on her shoulders now, as I said, but on the ground a little in front of her. “You have not got on your new cloak to-day,” he said. “It would have kept you warm.”
“Of course I couldn’t wear it to run about the forest in,” said Mary. “Well, to pick up cones in – I’ve not had much running about to-day, certainly. But how did you know about it?”
“Never mind just now,” was the reply. “Sit down,” and glancing round, Mary saw her mossy chair there as before, though she felt sure that a moment or two ago its place had been empty. But she was very glad to settle herself in it all the same, and before she had sat still for two minutes she felt rested and refreshed.
“It is a nice chair,” she said, patting the arms, on which the Cooies were now perched, approvingly. “Now tell me, please, where are all your hundreds of relations to-day? What are they busy about?”
“They are preparing for a great ceremony,” said Mr Coo, solemnly. “The day after to-morrow is fixed for it to take place. Our Queen – Queen White Dove – every year gives – ”
“Your Queen,” exclaimed Mary. “I never heard of her before – I did not know you had a Queen! Queen White Dove,” and something seemed to come into her mind as she spoke, as if she did remember – what was it?
“Are you sure you never heard of her before?” asked the wood-pigeons, their heads very much on one side. “But it does not matter. You will, I hope, see her for yourself, as I will explain, if you will not interrupt. She gives a prize every year for some special thing, the finding or making of which calls for skill and perseverance on the part of her subjects. This year the prize is promised to the bringer of the whitest feather. It must be as white as her own plumage, which I must tell you has never yet been matched. So there has been a great deal of search for such a feather, and work too, as some of us have endeavoured in various ways to whiten to great perfection some of our own feathers, though it remains to be seen if we have succeeded. Myself, I doubt it,” he went on (for Mr Coo had taken up the thread of the discourse), “and as the ceremonial will be a very great and beautiful sight, we have obtained leave for you, Mary, to be present at it, provided – this condition cannot be avoided – you yourself are one of the competitors.”
“I don’t know what that means,” said Mary. “Please explain. I should so like to come, and you would manage somehow, wouldn’t you, for me to get leave from godmother.”
“One question at a time, if you please,” said Mr Coo, in the tone which rather provoked Mary always. “Being a competitor simply means that you too will try to win the prize.”
Mary’s face fell.
“Oh then it’s no good,” she said. “I can’t possibly find the whitest of white feathers.”
Neither of the wood-pigeons spoke for a moment or two. They only looked at each other. Then said Mr Coo, —
“You are not a stupid child, Mary, yet you are rather slow and dull sometimes. How about your feather cloak?”
“Oh,” said Mary again, “that’s no good. If you know about the cloak, and I suppose you do, in some queer way, for I’ve never told you what it’s like, you must know that it isn’t white at all. It’s made up of all sorts of shades of bluey-grey – like your feathers – even pinky-looking here and there.”
“Ah,” said Mr Coo. “Yes, I am aware of that.” Mary opened her eyes.
“Then what do you mean?” she asked.
This time Mrs Coo replied. She never liked to be left out of the conversation for long.
“You cannot have read or heard many fairy stories, my dear.”
“Yes indeed I have, heaps,” said Mary, more and more puzzled. “Tell me why you think that.”
“We cannot explain,” said Mrs Coo. “It’s against the rules. There are some things that humans must find out for themselves,” and Mary understood that it would be no use questioning more.
Then, as she was now quite rested, the wood-pigeons proposed that they should take her round the bowers. They hopped on in front, Mary following. And oh, how pretty the bowers were! They were alike and yet different. Inside each, hung, quite high up, a little coloured lamp. It did not seem as if anything were burning in it: it was more as if some of the wonderful light in the whole place, whose source was one of the secrets, had been caught into the lamp and tinted with its exquisite colour. Such colours as Mary had never dreamt of, even though they somehow reminded her of the countless shades of her own little cloak. And there were no two lamps the same, nor were there any two bowers the same, as I have said.
For the varieties of foliage were endless. Some were very fine and small – like great masses of what we call “maiden-hair fern”; some larger and richer, like the trees Mary had read of in the tropics of the everyday world, but all foliage only – no flowers. And in each bower there were cosy-looking nests, and silvery-looking perches, and trickling water, as clear as crystal – everything to make a birds’ paradise. No wonder that the Cooies and their countless relations loved to come for a rest, in the midst of their busy lives, to the secret place of the great forest.
“Now you have visited all the bowers,” said the wood-pigeons at last, and Mary, glancing round, saw that they were back again at the entrance, where stood the mossy chair.
“Not your Queen’s one?” she asked. “Has she not one of her very own, even though I suppose in a way the whole place belongs to her. Our Queen, you know, Queen Victoria, has several palaces just for herself, though of course all our country is hers too.”
“No,” was the reply. “This is not our Queen’s home. She only visits it. Even this beautiful place is not beautiful enough for her.”
Mary drew a deep breath.
“Then,” she said, “I suppose her home is in real real fairy-land, and you say this is only on the borders. And,” as a sudden thought struck her, “she visits outside of here too, sometimes. I remember now why I seemed to know about her. It must be the Queen who goes now and then to coo to Blanche and Milly at Crook Edge. A most beautiful, quite, quite white dove, with a ring of gold round her neck.”
“You may call it gold,” said Mr Coo, “but it is really more beautiful than any gold you have ever seen. Yes – that is our Queen. Your friends are highly favoured. They are good, and they have had sorrow – ”
“Yes,” Mary interrupted, “they are still dressed in black, and I am sure they are good.”
“That is reason enough for the Queen’s favour,” said Mrs Coo, “and now they are going to be happy.”
“I am so glad,” said Mary. “How I would like to see the Queen! But there is no use thinking of it I could never find a feather white enough, however I searched, and there is no time now. Thank you very much, Cooies, for getting leave for me to come; but it is no good, you see. And – oh there is my bell! Shall I go home by the short-cut again?” and she glanced at the chair.
“And what about your basket of cones, then?” said Mr Coo. “It is outside, and you promised to get them.”
“Oh I forgot,” said Mary. “Well, never mind. I daresay I shan’t see you again for a good while, so you might come part of the way with me.”
They did not answer; but when Mary had passed through the two gates into the forest, where it was beginning to look quite dark and to feel very chilly, there was the basket, and the Cooies on the handle.
“You sit down on the cones,” they said; and as she did so, without questioning, she felt herself uplifted, and glancing at the wood-pigeons, she saw that their wings were outspread for full flight.
It all seemed to pass in a moment; she had not time to think to herself that she and the basket and the birds were all flying together in some wonderful way, before there came – no, it could not be called a bump, it was too gentle for that, but a sudden stop, and there they were all of them just at the little wicket-gate leading through into Dove’s Nest garden.
“Thank you, Cooies,” said Mary, feeling as if she should be out of breath, though she wasn’t, “and – and – good-bye.”
“For the present,” added Mr Coo. “But, Mary, remember, if you want to join our great gathering the day after to-morrow, there is a way for you to do so; you have only to sharpen your wits and remember some of the fairy tales.”
“There is one,” said Mrs Coo softly, “about a prince who had a wishing – ”
“Hush,” said Mr Coo, “it is against the rules to give such very broad hints. But I may tell you this without any hinting at all, Mary. If you come you need only walk through the forest to the place where you found us – ”
“Or you found me,” interrupted Mary.
“Where we met to-day,” he went on, “and there we shall meet you again”; and before Mary had time to say any more, the wood-pigeons were off, out of sight!
And Mary rather slowly made her way to the house, carrying the basket of fir-cones and thinking over all she had seen, and wondering what her friends meant by their curious hints.
Chapter Eleven.
“From The Islands of Gorgeous Colours.”
Miss Verity took Mary a drive again the next day. It was not as interesting as the last one – the one to Crook Edge, I mean, to see Blanche and Milly. They did not pay any visits, as Miss Verity had several messages in the little town two or three miles off, where she had to go once a week or so to the shops.
Mary went into one or two of them with her godmother, and was amused by their quaint old-fashionedness; but when it came to a call at the Post-Office, where Miss Verity had some business to see to, she told Mary she had better wait outside in the pony-carriage, as it was a bright sunny afternoon, and she was well wrapped up in her feather cloak.
So Mary sat there thinking, and I daresay you can guess what her thoughts were about. She was wondering and wondering what the wood-pigeons had meant by their hints; and just as her godmother came out again and stepped into the carriage, she had got the length of saying to herself —
“Oh, I can’t guess, and I’m tired of puzzling about it any more. I just wish – oh, how I do wish – that I could find a perfectly white feather, the whitest that ever was seen! If only one of those dear little fluffy clouds would drop down and turn into one, it would do beautifully.”
She was looking up at the sky as she thought this; it was very blue, and the scudding cloudlets were very white; and – was it fancy? – just at that moment it seemed to Mary that a little quiver went through her cloak, as if it, or something about it, had suddenly “come alive,” or as if a tiny breeze had passed through it. But no; there was no wind at all that afternoon. Miss Verity remarked as they drove home how very still it was.
Something more than a quiver ran through Mary herself when she got out of the carriage and went into the hall. It was still full daylight, and there on the table lay a letter – a foreign letter – addressed to herself; and with a thrill of delight Mary saw that the writing was her cousin Michael’s!
“Oh, godmother!” she exclaimed, “it is for me – all for myself, not just a scrap inside auntie’s, and it has come straight from – from India, is it?”
“From the West Indies, dear,” said Miss Verity. “I know his ship was to be at one of the principal islands there a short time ago. Now just throw off your cloak and run into the drawing-room and read your letter. It won’t do you any harm to keep on your other things for a few minutes.”
Mary did as her godmother said. She put down her feather cloak carefully on a seat in the hall – somehow she never felt inclined to handle it carelessly, – and ran in to read her precious letter by the fire.
Surprises were not at an end for her to-day.
As she opened the envelope and drew out its contents something fluttered down to the floor. At first sight she could not believe her eyes; she thought she was dreaming, for when she stooped to pick the little object up, she saw that it was a small feather – white, perfectly white, “as white,” thought Mary to herself, with astonished delight, “as white as snow.” She scarcely dared to touch it, but slipping it back into the envelope, she went on to read the letter. It was not a very long one, but most kind and affectionate, as Michael’s always were, and it contained one piece of news which was full of interest. Through some quite unexpected changes, her cousin wrote, it was possible, just possible, that he might be home again by Christmas, and able to be “backwards and forwards” among them all for some weeks or even months. And then he went on to explain about the feather. It had dropped at his feet, he said, from some bird passing overhead, while he was standing, idle for once, looking over the sea and thinking of home, “and of you, little Mary,” he added, “so I thought I would just slip it into my letter.”
“He has no idea how pleased I am with it,” thought Mary. “It has come just in time for me to go to the Dove Queen’s great party, and I shouldn’t wonder – no, I really shouldn’t – if it gained the prize, for I am almost sure it is a fairy feather.”
And the word fairy reminded her of what the Cooies had said, and all of a sudden another idea came into her mind.
“I do believe that was it,” she said, speaking aloud in her excitement. “Yes, it all fits in with what they said and didn’t say. The feather cloak is a fairy cloak, a ‘wishing cloak.’ It brought me home in what seemed a moment the other day, by making me fall asleep, and to-day it has brought this beautiful white feather just in time! Oh what fun and how nice! I am sure I have guessed right.”
And as if in reply, at that moment she heard, though the windows were all closed, faintly, yet distinctly, “coo-coo,” from the side of the room nearest the gate into the forest. But Mary knew it meant, —
“Yes, you have guessed right at last, Mary.”
She was in great spirits all that evening, and her godmother quite sympathised in her pleasure at having heard from Michael. And when Mary showed her the feather, Miss Verity looked at it most admiringly.
“It is a lovely feather,” she said. “I don’t think I ever saw anything, except snow, so perfectly white.” This pleased Mary very much, and made her feel still happier about her chance of the Queen Dove’s prize.
“Godmother,” she said, “may I spend to-morrow afternoon again in the forest? You don’t particularly want me to drive with you, do you?”
She could not help feeling a little anxious as to the answer, but yet – the Cooies had managed everything all right so far. She felt that she might trust them.
“No, dear,” said Miss Verity. “I do not mean to drive myself to-morrow, for I am going to send to fetch some rather large parcels from the railway station. And in any case I like you to play in the forest when you wish it. It will be fine to-morrow, too, I think, as the sun has set very red.”
“I’m so glad,” said Mary, “and thank you very much. Shall I get any more cones?” she added.
“Yes, please, as many as you can, but don’t stand about too much, so as to get chilled.”
“I almost wish,” thought Mary, as she was going to bed, “that I hadn’t reminded godmother of the fir-cones. I am so afraid of being too late for the Queen’s party. But perhaps it wouldn’t have been kind not to offer to get them. I know what I’ll do, I’ll start as early as ever I can, and run all the way to the place near the white gate – I am sure I know it now – and pick up the cones there; there are lots. So the Cooies are sure not to miss me, and if my basket is not full, they will manage to help me in some of their queer fairy ways.”
Then she thought how and where she could keep the feather safe, and secure from getting the least spotted. She decided that its old home – the inside of Michael’s letter – was as safe as anywhere, but first she tore off a little piece of the blue tissue-paper round the “fairy cloak” and folded the feather in it.
To-morrow was fine, and all went as Mary hoped. Very soon after luncheon she set off, basket on arm, to the forest. Without difficulty she found the spot where the wood-pigeons had met her the last time, and which she knew was close to the entrance to the “secret place,” and there set to work to gather cones as fast as she could.
There were plenty, but still it was rather tiring, to keep stooping for them, scarcely allowing herself a moment’s rest, and more than once she wished that the Cooies would make haste and come to her help.
She was not afraid of their forgetting her, however, she knew they would come in time, and so they did, for before her basket was more than three-quarters full she heard the slight rustle in the air and felt the little feet on her shoulders.
“There you are!” she exclaimed joyfully, “and oh, dear Cooies, do you know what I have got?” and she drew out the precious feather.
Whether they had known about it or not, she could not tell, for they said nothing in reply to her question. They just hopped down and looked at her basket, their heads on one side.
“It is time to be going in,” they said. “All the others are in their bowers, getting ready.”
“But my cones,” said Mary. “The basket is not nearly full, and I shouldn’t like godmother to think I had got fewer this time.”
The wood-pigeons looked up – not to the sky, but to the nearest fir-trees. And two or three cones dropped – straight into the basket.
“It will be quite full when you come back again,” they said.
And Mary, wondering, but feeling it better to ask no more questions, followed them down the little path and through the two gates, both of which this time stood open. And when they first entered into the great, leafy hall, for a minute or two it seemed as deserted as the last time. But only for a minute or two.
“Sit down,” said the Cooies, very softly. “There is your place. They are all coming, and the rush may make you feel giddy.”
Then Mary saw in front of her a little mossy bank – large enough for herself and another child, perhaps. She sat down – something made her sit quite in the middle, and on each side of her, greatly to her satisfaction, for she was feeling rather shy and even a tiny atom frightened, her two friends settled themselves.
Not a moment too soon. There came such a rush through the air that she could have fancied a great wind had suddenly burst into the peaceful place, and round her, above, on every side, such a whizz and flutter of wings as would, it seemed to her, have whirled her down had she been standing upright and unprepared for them, and for a moment Mary closed her eyes.
Then the rush quieted down, and when Mary looked up again she saw a wonderful sight. Clusters and clusters of birds, on branches all round the great arbour – so many that the greenery was almost hidden. But they were all in order. As her eyes grew accustomed to them, she noticed that no two clusters were quite alike, either in size or colour or shape; they were all a little different, and then she understood that each “family” of her own Cooies’ numerous relations kept itself distinct, though all were evidently on most friendly terms, and her own two wood-pigeons seemed to have a specially important position, which pleased her to see.
But the principal personage of the day was yet to make her appearance, and the kind of hush and expectation which followed the rush of the innumerable little wings told its own tale to Mary. She sat, almost holding her breath.
Eight in front of her, though at some little distance, was a pillar or pedestal, perfectly covered with moss of an even more beautiful green than that of the beautiful exquisitely fine grass at her feet. And as Mary kept her eyes fixed on this pillar – something told her to do so – at last what they were all, the child and the hundreds of birds, waiting for, came. How it came, she could never tell. There was a movement, not as loud as a rustle even, just a movement in the air, and then – on the top of the pillar she saw the loveliest thing she had ever seen in her life. A large white dove – so white, so beautiful; and as the lovely creature slightly turned her snowy neck, Mary caught a moment’s gleam of something golden, like a thread of vivid sunshine, more than gold, if you can picture such a thing to yourselves.
It was Blanche’s dove – Mary felt sure of it now.
Then the queenly bird spoke. Her voice was like music – whether the words that came to Mary’s ears would have sounded to others like murmuring “coo-coo” only, or not, I cannot say, and it does not matter, for the little human guest understood.
“The procession may pass,” said the Queen.
Then from every cluster two birds detached themselves, all meeting together behind Mary’s seat. And in another moment, reminding her a little of a long line of tiny choristers that she had once seen in a great cathedral, they appeared two by two – fifty couples or more – and passing forward, each pair stopped in front of the Queen and laid down a feather at the foot of her pillar. White feathers they all were.
It was so pretty – the birds’ perfect order and slow movement – the Queen’s stately beauty – that Mary forgot for a moment that she herself was to take any part in the ceremony, till a little peck on her cheek told her that the right-hand Cooie was calling her to attention.
“It is your turn now,” he whispered. “Draw out your feather. We will lead the way.”
And they did so, Mary following, the precious feather in her hand, till at the foot of what to herself she had begun to call “the throne,” she felt she should stop, and with the prettiest curtsey she could make, she laid her treasure down, a very little in front of the long row already there, and then, still guided by the two wood-pigeons, made her way back to her place, where, however, she did not sit down again, but remained standing, her heart beating rather fast, for even in the instant’s glimpse of the others that she had had, it seemed to her that hers was the whitest!
The Queen flew down from her pillar, and passed slowly along the front, looking carefully at the feathers. Then she bent down and picked one up in her beak and flew back with it. Mary shut her eyes for a moment, afraid to look, but when she opened them again and dared to glance before her, she saw that her hopes had been well-founded – Michael’s gift was no longer where she had laid it.
And there stood the Queen, the quill of the feather in her beak, so that the rest of it lay across her own snowy plumage, not snowier than it, however. She was quite silent for a minute, as if she wanted them all to see for themselves, and then came again the beautiful tones of her voice.
“This feather,” she said, “has won the prize. It has come from the islands across the sea – the islands of gorgeous colours and rich fragrance – this simple snow-white feather. Our human guest, Mary, our child-visitor, has brought it, and you see for yourselves that it has won the prize. It is the whitest of them all,” and she bent her head towards the feathers on the ground, “beautiful as they are.”
Then there came a great wave through the air; a murmur of many voices, which sounded like one solitary note on some strange soft organ: then silence again, till again Queen White Dove spoke.
“I see you all agree with me,” she said, “and I think you are generous and kind. For there is one thing to be said still, before the prize is given. You, my birds and relations, have been for many weeks seeking to win the prize: you have worked for it; you have travelled far, many of you. But Mary has not needed to do any of these things. Her feather came to her without any effort on her part – ”